


Moon Fire

by foxboxtango



Series: Moon Song [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baskerville - Freeform, I don't want to tag too much because plot, M/M, Sherlock has several emotions, also swearing, bad words, like at all, post-Reichenbach but not season three compliant, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxboxtango/pseuds/foxboxtango
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hadn't changed in months.  The Wolf never tried to escape or rebel, it merely lay there and whimpered.</p><p>John and Mrs Hudson have to deal with the aftermath of Sherlock's death, but they're surrounded by memories of him constantly, so they take a trip to Dartmoor in order to start fresh.</p><p>It doesn't quite go to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Moon Fire**

Chapter One

_John remembered…_

_Spitting barbed wire words at Sherlock until they twisted and tangled around him.  “You_ machine _.”  When the truth was entirely opposite._

_John remembered…_

_Reaching out a hand like it could possibly bridge the distance between them and he could simply help Sherlock off of the roof and into John’s arms, where he would be safe and warm and_ home _._

_John remembered…_

_Broken wings of black and blue and purple, and red painted on the ground in something that seemed to spell out the history of Sherlock’s life and yet seemed so inadequate at the same time.  As if he were beyond the boundaries of mere mortals, as if Death could not reach him any more than John could have moments before._

-/-\\-

John hadn’t changed in months.

Every full moon, he would lie in Sherlock’s bed, curled on his side with his hands fisted in the sheets.  Since Sherlock’s death, the Wolf had been kept inside John’s head, not let out except for once: the first moon _after_.  John had changed and the Wolf’s first instinct was to wag Its tail and look for the lanky detective.  The overwhelming, violent, oppressive tsunami of emotion that followed was strong enough to extinguish the moon fire in his veins and force John back into his own body.  The park was still filled with howls echoing under the full moon, but it wasn’t the same.

The ducks fled.

For the full moons following, John lay awake all night, trembling with tiredness but sleeping only in the day in the desperate hope of avoiding that soul-destroying disappointment and loss and _hurt_ he had felt the last time.

The Wolf never tried to escape or rebel, it merely lay there and whimpered.

John had become a recluse – where once he had been a social person, readily agreeing to dinners and drinks with mates from days _before_ , now he made excuses.  He saw Mrs Hudson, because no one could ever dislike that woman, and with Sherlock gone, John was the only protector she had.  Well, he _said_ that, though lately it seemed it was very much the other way around.

He had received no form of contact from Donovan or Anderson.  No emails, letters, texts, phone calls, visits.  _Nothing_.  It was probably for the best, in all reality, because John didn’t know what he would do if he saw them.  Knowing what they did, knowing how much they would have _enjoyed_ that initial blow, the kick to the back of Sherlock’s knees, there was only so far John could restrain himself.  They were seemingly content with forgetting existed, a sentiment John shared, but Lestrade had pestered John so regularly that he had deleted his email account to avoid the flood of messages. Eventually Greg got the hint and eased up.  John still received texts on a weekly basis, but that was it.  He never replied.

Mycroft had been inside the flat only once, while Mrs Hudson was shopping.  The resulting argument had started with John throwing anything and everything he could reach, and ended with him advancing menacingly towards Mycroft with a gleam in his eyes that said, “ _Run.  Run away now, run away fast._ ”  When Mrs Hudson arrived home later that day, with bags of shopping both for her and for John, she entered the upstairs flat to find him with his head resting on his drawn-up knees and his fingers tangled in his hair.  She hadn’t clucked, hadn’t sighed; she didn’t even go and make tea, which might have pushed John over the edge.  She simply sat down next to him, slowly lowering herself to the floor and never once uttering a sound of complaint despite her bones protesting on the way down, and waited.  Eventually, John’s fingers opened and he uncurled himself, and as she put her arm around him, he started to cry.  She did make a sound then, a sort of sad murmur that had him clutching her cardigan as though it was a lifeline.

Neither of them was sure how long they sat there, only that Mrs Hudson started crying too, and they held each other tightly, like it could possibly start to close the hole both of them had gaping in their souls.

-/-\\-

Eventually, one or both of them decided that they couldn’t live like that anymore, and a trip to Dartmoor was planned.  Mrs Hudson had a sister who lived there and owned a house that she was happy to lend them while she went on a trip to visit her granddaughters in Australia.  Arrangements were made and bags were packed within a week.  Neither of them had anybody to tell – John had quit his job at Bart’s weeks ago (given the money that was still coming into his bank account, he suspected Mycroft was involved in supporting his lifestyle but couldn’t bring himself to care), he wasn’t in contact with any of his old friends from the army, and Harriet was in another bad spell where she didn’t care who or where she was, so long as she could get her hands on another bottle.  Mrs Hudson’s only relatives were her sister and great-nieces, and they were already aware.  Both were sure Mycroft would get the message when they left.

They made an odd pair: a worn out soldier who limped along, and a frail woman who had the face of the kind old woman who lived two doors down and the stubbornness of an ox.  They paid no attention to the skeptical glances, the strange looks –what did they care what others thought?  John stood in front of Mrs Hudson on the train, his back to most of the other passengers as if he could shield her from them, as if he needed to protect her. Mrs Hudson sat and looked around, staring back at anyone who dared to look at John and smirk, mocking the world-weary man, as if her will alone could heal the scars left by others.

Maybe he did, and maybe it could.

Cathy Sissons greeted them at the station, and didn’t even blink at the new lines on her face or the blonde man who stood straight next to her.  John put their bags in the back of her car and they were driven to her house.  It was small and cosy, and had a very similar air to 221A.  John  could only imagine what the Sissons household would have been like during the sisters’ childhood, but he imagined something like the house – warm, relaxed, and comforting in a way that always made you feel welcome.

They were invited in, and taken to their respective bedrooms.  John put his bags down next to the small bed in the middle of the room and glanced speculatively out of the large window.  The view was spectacular – the rolling hills of the moor, and beyond that, the woods stretching out to the distance with the most hovering above the trees.

“Hoo-hoo,”Cathy called out as she popped her head into the room.  John smiled at the familiar noise.  “Hello dear, just wanted to check that you’d found everything and got yourself settled in.  Are you hungry?  We’ve just started lunch, if you’d like.”  
“Thank you,” he replied, and followed her down to the kitchen, where Mrs Hudson was already washing vegetables.  “Is there anything I can do to help?”  
“If you could put the kettle on for tea that would be marvellous.”

If there was one thing John could do, it was tea.  Mrs Hudson winked at him and he grinned back.  The countryside was already improving his mood, and Mrs Hudson’s too, it seemed.  Maybe they’d be alright after all.

-/-\\-

_In Ireland, Sherlock Holmes pressed a handkerchief against his bloody lip and zipped up the sweatshirt he was wearing.  He called the police, then discarded the burner phone next to the bound and gagged murderer at his feet and jogged away, stuffing the stained cloth into his pocket and putting silent headphones into his ears._

_He didn’t look back._


	2. Chapter Two

**Moon Fire**

Chapter Two

John was good at not-remembering.  Not-remembering was not, of course, anywhere remotely close to _forgetting_ , but pushing unwanted thoughts away had become something that John had a skill for.  He’d had lots of practice, if nothing else.  However Sherlock, as was his norm, not only ignored and defied John’s boundaries, but practically destroyed them.  In the dark, John was assaulted with memories from the Fall: Sherlock’s arm windmilling through the air and John stumbling on the spot, aching to help but unable to move, and pushing, fighting his way through the crowd and sobbing and howling and he wasn’t sure who he was anymore, the Wolf or John or a hybrid of the two and he may have been howling out loud for all he knew but he didn’t care because Sherlock was _gone_.

And then he woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribcage and his shirt soaked through with sweat.

John remembered.  He ached.  He longed to escape the guilt and pain and sudden, shocking loss that he couldn’t forget or flee.

The days were sometimes better, sometimes worse than even the nights.  With Mrs Hudson, they could not-remember together and they would both bustle around trying to pretend that It had never happened, as though that could make them happier.  It never did.

It was the worst when John was left alone to think and forced to remember and all he wanted to do was transform but he _couldn’t_.  He couldn’t bear that pain, that loss, couldn’t face going back to the hurt so vicious it felt like he was being torn apart.

Until one day.

“John, dear,” Mrs Hudson started, looking at him wisely over the rim of her teacup as though it was a substitute for a pair of spectacles.  “Have you thought about going out, for a run, perhaps?  I hear the moor is hauntingly beautiful, especially at night.”

John stared at her.

“You think I should go running at night, in the moor.  Alone?”  
“Well we both know you wouldn’t be defenceless dear.  You’ve got your wits about you.”

John stared again and blinked a couple times, wondering if she _knew_.  Mrs Hudson looked blithely back at him.

“Stretch your legs a bit after being cooped up for too long,” she added.

Yes.  She definitely knew.  She and John had been taking long, slow walks every other day to get out of the house – she knew that John hadn’t been ‘cooped up’ since arriving in Dartmoor.

There was a long pause, and then John said,

“Good idea.”

Mrs Hudson smiled at him, stood, and put her cup in the sink.  “Now, how about you come down to the shops with me and we can organise something nice for dinner.”

John was pretty sure there was a silent, ‘ _and help me carry the bags back_ ’ on the end, but if Mrs Hudson was anything, she was definitely not a little old lady.  He stood too.

“Love to, just let me grab my jacket.”

-/-\\-

When the sun started dipping behind the trees, Mrs Hudson prodded John off in the direction of the moor with a cheerful, “See you in the morning, dear”.  John was pretty sure she had locked the door.

He stared back at the house in surprise, wondering when she had figured it out, or if she had always known and just never said anything.  John was sure he had managed to hide it pretty well – even Sherlock hadn’t known about it until John had shown him.

(John wished he had told him sooner, so that they could have had more time together like that.  The Wolf _loved_ Sherlock, adored him with something that even John couldn’t quite put into words, and Sherlock had loved the Wolf, John was sure of it.  He loved the Wolf in the way that It opened up a whole new realm of possibilities, and because It was warm and soft and, despite Sherlock attempting to deny it, he quite enjoyed the cuddles after he got used to them.  Sherlock had loved John too, more so than the Wolf, because John was _home_ , John was his.  John was strong, and soft, and brave, and quiet, and smart but not, and they belonged to each other.  And now Sherlock was _gone_.)

Maybe Mrs Hudson had a Wolf in her family and knew what to look for.

He wasn’t quite sure how the evening was going to pan out.  The Wolf had never deliberately hurt an innocent person before, and John always retained some control, but lately there had been a strange disconnection in his head.  When once he had made very sure to tell Sherlock that it _wasn’t_ like the movies, thank you very much, he was quite at peace with himself and the only internal conflict he had usually related to Sherlock himself, now it was as if there were two very separate sides to him.  It felt like the Wolf was concealing something, John didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t like it.  He hadn’t had any contact with the Wolf – normally there was a constant loop of emotion and thought, but lately he had been lucky to get even a twitch of interest from the usually energetic Wolf.

He had pretty much figured that the root of distress was Sherlock.  It usually was, to be honest.  Somehow, though, this was different – deeper almost, a different kind of turmoil.

John’s thoughts let him into the misty depths of the woods on the moor, and he shivered from the cold.  He took a deep breath.

_Here goes nothing_ , he thought.

**Gone.** **Packmate.  Bondmate.  Brother.  Lover.  Friend.  Gone.  Home.  Heart.  Lost. _Gone_.**

John stood again and sucked in a breath, clutching his chest.  For the first time in his life, he wished that he and the Wolf were completely separate so he could gather It up in his arms and hold It until some of the pain went away.  John _knew_ he was upset that Sherlock had died.  Some would go so far as to say devastated, and he would probably agree with them, but nothing he had felt compared to what the Wolf was feeling.

It felt the loss so keenly, like a physical wound that healed wrong and always hurt, like someone was cutting Its skin open, like someone was shooting at Them and hitting Their shoulder over and over again and nothing They could do would make any difference.

The Wolf was lost without Sherlock.  It was blind, It was deaf.  John wanted to weep for It, and for himself, and for the part that was both.  He took a deep breath and shifted again, trying to contain some small part of the animalistic rage that consumed and paralysed the Wolf.

_Please_ , John tried to say, _I’m sorry, so sorry.  I didn’t know you were hurting this much.  Please let me take some of your hurt away.  Let me bear some of your pain.  Please, I’m_ sorry _._

The Wolf howled again, and while it started off fierce, it died down to a quiet whimper.  It dropped Its head and tail, finally acknowledging the loss It was dealing with.

Their connection lit and sparked and renewed, and John felt Its presence.  It was at once soothing and painful, calming and terrifying.  John was allowed the comfort of feeling safe in his own mind again, but the full weight of the loss he’d experience was thrust upon him.  The Wolf had been shielding him, protecting him from grief, and because of that It had taken the worst of the pain for Itself.  Maybe, now that They were one again, back to normal, it would start to get better.

The Wolf roamed around the trees, pausing every so often to sniff something or scare off a small animal.  It followed a soft, flowery smell that seemed vaguely familiar for a while, before realising it was Mrs Hudson’s perfume.  It continued to follow, content to be led back to the house.  The part that was still largely John contemplated changing back, but he was more comfortable in his Wolf skin than he had been in his own for a long time.  Mrs Hudson had the lights in the living room on, and he had a feeling she would be waiting up for him.  Besides, after all she had done for him and Sherlock, she deserved his complete honesty.

The Wolf trotted to the door and pawed at it, not wanting to scratch the wood but not quite able to knock properly either.  It barked softly once, just in case, and then heard Mrs Hudson walking towards the front of the house, grumbling something (unclear, but also definitely unflattering) under her breath about impatience.  John smiled, and the Wolf started to wag Its tail.  It dropped Its rear and sat on Its haunches, waiting for the door to open.

Mrs Hudson unlocked the door and pulled it open, looking out at first the empty night, and then slightly further down to where the Wolf was sitting.

“Hello, dear,” she warmly, not betraying even the hint of shock or terror.  “Come in, you must be exhausted.”

Tongue lolling out of Its mouth, the Wolf padded quietly inside, ears pricking at the sound of the bolts being shut and the locked being turned left and right.  It stopped and let Mrs Hudson pass, and then followed her to the living room.  She took her seat and picked up her knitting again – it was full of holes and loose ends, and John was only somewhat sure it was meant to be scarf, but It only endeared her to him further.  The Wolf followed her to her seat, turned around once on the spot, and then la down at her feet to bask in the warmth of company for the first time in nearly eighteen months.

A rumbling purr made its way out of the Wolf’s chest as Its eyes closed and It fell asleep to the quiet click-clack of knitting needles.

-/-\\-

_In India, Sherlock Holmes carefully caught the drop of sweat on the tip of his nose before it landed on the ground in front of him.  He opened the bag in his hands and coaxed the snake inside it out into the open.  Swallowing quietly, he let it slither and coil around his arm, then lowered it onto the dusty man in front of him.  Sherlock offered the contract killer a brief smile, then collected the bag and walked away._

_He’d parked a car three kilometres away, and if he could successfully make it back without collapsing in the heat or losing his way, he would call this one a definite win._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You go, BAMF Mrs Hudson.
> 
> You go.
> 
> (I don't really have anything else to say...hope you're enjoying it so far? It picks up, I promise)


	3. Chapter Three

**Moon Fire**

Chapter Three

“John?  John.  _John_.”

A soft voice was calling out his name.  It was a familiar voice, warm and king, so he didn't take any alarm. He rolled over and buried his face in his arms instead, chasing the warmth of sleep.  He hazily registered a quiet giggle but didn’t give it much thought.

“John, come on,” the voice said.  It had laughter hidden in the words.  “You resisted when I tried to wake you up before, but if you lie there for much longer, you won’t be able to move again.”

He heard the words, knew each one individually, but couldn’t quite translate that into an understandable sentence.  Gradually, as he rose from the fog of sleep, he went to lift his head and look for the speaker, but a sharp pain in his neck made him moan regretfully and he dropped back into his previous pose.

“Oh, I told you you’d be sore in the morning, but you ignored me! Come on, up you get.”

John mumbled in reply.  Seconds later, someone poked him in the leg.

“I’ll keep poking you until you wake up properly and move to a more comfortable spot,” the voice promised and, true to its word, the poking continued.

He mumbled again, raising a heavy arm and slapping vaguely at the offending hand.  Once it retreated, he pushed himself up to sit cross-legged, despite his protesting neck.  He blinked blearily at the figure in front of him, and eventually his eyes de-blurred enough for him to recognise Mrs Hudson.  She was smiling at him, and looking far more amused at his discomfort than he thought she should be.

“Mrs Hudson?” he asked, still somewhat confused as to _why_ , exactly, he had been sleeping on the living room floor of Cathy Sissons’ house.

That’s why.

Mrs Hudson must have seen the realisation, because she hastily interrupted his train of thought before it crashed and drove off a cliff in terror.

“Good morning, John.  Good to see you finally alert, I tried to wake you up before but you growled at me and tried to bury yourself closer into the carpet.”  She peered at him in concern. “When was the last time you got a decent night’s sleep, young man?”

Well…

They both knew the answer to that.

She stood carefully, not mentioning the event that lingered silently in the air.

“Breakfast?”  
“Love some,” John said gratefully.

_God bless Mrs Hudson._

-/-\\-

From then, they quickly established a routine – Cathy wasn’t due back for more than a month, so they didn’t have to worry about imposing.  In the morning, John and Mrs Hudson would eat breakfast and go for a long walk.  They’d return to the house to eat lunch, and then separate to amuse themselves.  Mrs Hudson baked (and baked, and baked), knitted (badly), and occasionally sat outside with a cup of tea.  John caught up on some reading he’d meant to do but never got around to, went into town for the shopping, or joined Mrs Hudson with tea.  They cooked dinner after that – John had become an adequate cook in the face of Sherlock’s refusal to touch anything resembling crockery (unless it was to destroy it in the name of science), but Mrs Hudson was a genius in the kitchen.  John was eating better than he had in years.  John did the washing up in return for the delicious meal, and then Mrs Hudson sent John off to the moor and let the Wolf in a couple hours later.

It was the happiest John had been in a long time.  It was _wonderful_.

Until it wasn’t.

John had no idea what changed, no bloody clue how he was discovered.  And that terrified him.

The moor, haunting, silent, and scary the first few times he’d visited, had turned into a sanctuary. A place of comfort and safety, somewhere he knew without a doubt that he would be safe because he was the deadliest predator there.  Fear was no longer a constant in his life ( _no looming threat, and wasn’t that just an enormous relief, for once? To not have the proverbial sword of Damocles hanging over him, silent and immense?_ ) and despite all of Sherlock’s claims, John felt he’d be quite happy without danger for a little while.

And then, all of a sudden, he was no longer the most dangerous thing in the moor, and fear had returned from the dead to be his companion.

He couldn’t tell exactly when he picked up on it, only that one moment the Wolf was happily following Its usual route through the trees, and the next It had stopped, pricked up Its ears, and _growled_.  It could hear all of the small animals nearby scurry off to their various burrows and nests, and briefly wished that It could do the same.  It sniffed the air carefully to confirm what It already suspected.

There were men surrounding Them.  About half a dozen, and all carrying the sharp smell of metal.

Armed. To the teeth.

The Wolf crouched and snarled louder, a warning.  _I will hurt you,_ the sound promised.  _I will fight you and I will win_.

Except They didn’t.

The men rushed in all at once, shouting and yelling so the Wolf couldn’t tell where to turn first.  John panicked.  _Run!_ he shouted.  _Get out of here!_   But the Wolf ignored him – instinct overrode human rationality, and It just turned and turned and turned in circles, following as many of Its attackers as It could and snapping angrily whenever one got too close.

“Take him out, already, we’ll have more time later.”

_No!_

One of the men raised a gun and fired right at Them.  The tranquiliser hit the Wolf directly in the muscle of Its hind leg and It felt the effects of the drug within seconds.  It snarled and snapped at the nearest guard, teeth coming dangerously close to his arm before It fell to the ground.  With one enormous last effort, John changed back, gasping in the cold, and then his vision darkened and he was dragged under.

-/-\\-

Mrs Hudson stared out into the darkness of the moor, looked at her watch, shut the door, and walked back to her chair in the living room.

She had done this five minutes before, and would do it five minutes after.  She knew she was probably being ridiculous.  John was a _werewolf_ , for goodness’ sake, it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle himself out there.

She peered out of the window, unable to see much past her worried reflection staring back at her as she pondered the problem.

She could call Mycroft.  She didn’t want to, of course, and John would hate it if he knew she had the number.  She’d never planned on using it, especially not after what John had revealed about his role in Sherlock’s death ( _“He told Moriarty_ everything _he wanted to know – how could someone so ridiculously intelligent be so  unbelievably, fucking_ stupid _!?”_ ), but it had seemed like a good idea to have it just in case.

Of course, it could turn out that this wasn’t a ‘just in case’ kind of situation after all, and maybe John’s Wolf had just got distracted.

But…what if It hadn’t?  What if something had happened, and she didn’t know, and… _and she just couldn’t lose both of her boys!_

Mrs Hudson got up, opened the door, and checked the darkness once again.

_Right then._

Mind made up, she closed the door, locked all three locks, and then went to call Mycroft.  If anything was actually wrong, he’d be able to fix it.

-/-\\-

John woke up with a dizzying headache, a throbbing in his thigh, and the inability to move any of his limbs.  His eyes snapped open.

“Interesting.  Note that the subject is capable of an extremely quick shift between unconsciousness and full alertness.”  
“What–”  The word ripped itself out of John’s chest, a snarl that had his whole body shuddering, and then he couldn’t say anything else.  
“The subject also displays signs of aggression, as well as aspects of animal instinct even while in his human form.”

John stared in disbelief.  ‘ _Displays signs of aggression_ ’? He snarled again, and tried to work free of the restraints around his arms and legs that, unfortunately, successfully pinned him to the chair.  _Fucking Velcro_.  Unable to move and still too outraged to speak, he settled for glaring with a fire that usually made men and women quake in front of him.  The female scientist in front of him merely peered over her glasses and wrote down more notes on her clipboard.

“Subject is currently attempting to use animal body language and posturing to intimidate.  Seeing as how the subject is currently restrained quite effectively, there seems to be little reason to feel intimidated.”

The subtle, mocking tone of her voice set John’s teeth on edge and he finally found his voice.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” he growled.  “I’ve done nothing to you, nothing to _anyone_ , in fact, so what is it, exactly, that you think you can take from me?  Believe me, I’ll be incredibly surprised if you can think of something that I haven’t already given, one way or another.”  
“Oh, no nothing like that,” the woman said airily, like kidnapping people and tying them to chairs was a perfectly normal occurrence in her day-to-day life.  Although perhaps it was, for all John knew.  “We would merely like to observe you.  We’ll run a few tests on strength, stamina, that sort of thing.  We might do a smidge of psychological testing as well.  Then, providing that you’ve been cooperative, we’ll let you go.”

John snorted.

“Yeah, sure.  I’ll behave and do all of your little tests and then you’ll let me go?  Nice try, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been kidnapped.”

That was actually true.  He’d been taken, along with three other men from his unit, by the local Afghan warlords for five days before they’d broken out.  At first he’d thought it was because of his werewolf nature that he’d been taken, but it turned out that they’d struck at the first vulnerable team they’d seen, and John had just been part of the unlucky bunch. He’d also had to deal with Mycroft, but those meetings hadn’t exactly been malevolent in nature, for all he appeared to be menacing.

The scientist smiled thinly.

“Believe us or not, it makes no difference to me,” she told him.  “But we will have your cooperation, regardless of whether you give it freely.”  She clicked her fingers and somebody walked behind John.  The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he tensed automatically.  “You’ll be taken to your room now.  Tests will begin in the morning; you’ll want to get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.”  She smiled again.  “My guess is that you’ll need it.”

She walked off, apparently finished with him, and John glared at the back of her head until his chair was tilted back and pushed forward.  Apparently the back two legs were on wheels.  _Fucking fantastic_.  That would do marvellous things for his still aggressive headache.

He was wheeled down several corridors until they came to stop outside his ‘room’.  The wall against the corridor was entirely glass, and the only concealed space was a small closet that John hoped would house some facilities.  There was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.  Whoever was pushing him took him through the door, set him on all four legs (none too gently), and undid the restraints.  He darted back out of the room before John had even stood up, and as he turned he heard the lock click he lifted himself out of the chair.  John moved slowly, very aware that attempting escape would be an astonishingly stupid thing to do.  He looked intently out of the window and raised an eyebrow at his chauffeur.

“Thanks every so much for the ride,” he said sweetly, with a grin that bared all of his teeth.  “Mind telling me where I am?  What the plan for me is?  What little Miss Science’s nefarious goal of doom is?”

The man stared and fidgeted slightly, but didn’t say a word.

John shrugged.  “I get it,” he said, stalking slowly along the glass.  “You’re just the hired hand, doing what she tells you.  Probably not informed of the whole plan.”  He paused, turned, continued.  “Probably disposable at some point.”

He fidgeted again and crossed his arms defensively over his chest, but still didn’t so much as open his mouth.  John realised that it was going to take an awful lot of time and a considerable amount of effort that he couldn’t quite justify with his current headache to get any kind of useful reaction out of his guard.  He stopped walking, and came to a stop right in front of the other man.  The tip of his nose pressed against the glass.

“When I get out of here, I will kill you,” he promised.  “Slowly, and with great joy on my part.”

That said, he retreated and went to sit against the back wall, legs stretched out in front of him.  He stared at the man, and the man stared back, pulse jumping in his throat in a way that satisfied a very dark part of John and the Wolf. John waited.

-/-\\-

_In New York, Sherlock watched from a distant rooftop as a tall, thin woman was cornered by three taller, far bulkier men.  Despite her martial arts training and extraordinary skill with weapons, both close-range and long-distance, she ended up overpowered and unconscious.  Sherlock nodded to himself, glad he hadn’t been so stupid as to believe he could take care of this one himself, and deposited the required money into the gang’s account.  Then, he very carefully turned and climbed down the fire escape on the outside of the building._

_He’d lost his affinity for high rooftops._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it picked up soon...


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's a little bit emotional in this bit...  
> Brace yourself for anger and swearing, I guess. Is that a trigger? I don't know. Also, John gets interrogated, just in case that's a problem for you...but it was probably obvious what was coming anyway. I'm so bad at this.

**Moon Fire**

Chapter Four

As the week wore on, the scientists trickled in, gazing at him from the safety of the corridor as he paced up and down like what he was.

A caged animal.

They took notes on his height, his weight, his posture; the way he cocked his head when he looked at them; the way he grinned a sharp grin full of teeth and promises of violence.

Inside John, the Wolf howled relentlessly, waiting for a crack in John’s shields to come bursting out.  He gritted his teeth and continued pacing.

Every now and then he caught sight of the woman, the slim, fair-haired scientist flitting in out of the corners of his vision and always carrying her clipboard, before disappearing again as quickly as she’d come.  In stark contrast to her were the guards that constantly watched his cell.  They changed every hour, always shaken after having to deal with John so closely.  They were his only entertainment that first week – they sure as fuck didn’t give him anything else to do.  He asked for a pack of cards, a book, hell, even a paddle ball would have been welcome.  His only pastime, apart from tormenting the many unfortunate men and women who were forced to watch over him, was imagining the many situations in which he could possibly escape, and what he would do once he was free.  Because he _would_ get free.

And then, all of a sudden, the real tests started.  At first, John had to admit he was somewhat glad for them – the scientists want to know how fast he could run, how long he could run for how much weight he could lift with his arms, his shoulders, his legs – because it gave him a chance to stretch and escape the absolute boredom of his cell.  He had been right about the facilities, but all it held was a toilet and toilet paper, a high tap for shower, and a bar of soap.  He’d already explored every inch of it, and when the feeling of boredom was about to explode and paint the walls with his brain, he baited the guards.  Truthfully, he just wanted a fight.  At that point it didn’t even matter if it resulted in escape or not, so long as he had something to _do_.

(God, if this was what the world was like to Sherlock all the time no _wonder_ he shot the walls so often.  John would have done so too, though he didn’t have a gun to use on the poor unsuspecting walls, so they were safe in that regard.)

So, yes.  At first he was glad of the tests.

That soon changed.

The scientists began to test John on not just his physicality, but his mentality as well.  They started playing tricks on him, asking him questions, taunting and teasing, and always with the goal in mind of _getting the Wolf out to play_.

John was wondering what they would do to It if It emerged, and that was the only thought that kept him from giving in and ripping every one of them to shreds.  Because while it would certainly make him feel better, it wouldn’t help him escape, and it definitely wouldn’t help the Wolf.

The specific experiments changed from day to day, though there was usually some sort of routine to it. They would make John run, or do sit-ups, or push-ups, or some other kind of activity, and measure his heart rate and blood pressure.  Then the real fun would begin.

After the first day, he was always shackled to a chair for the questions.  He’d apparently looked violent and homicidal enough that they were scared of what he might do.  Good.

“How did you become a werewolf?”

John glared.

“Were you born or did you get bitten?”

John stared.

“Is it true that you can only be killed with silver bullets?”

John rattled his handcuffs in agitation.

“How do you make your clothes phase in and out of existence when you change?”

John honestly didn’t know.

“Did you have a mate?”

John gave in to the urge and started cursing.  He started in English, spitting insults under his breath until he ran out of words and combinations.  Then he moved on to Dari, Pashto, and German.  His French and Italian were only basic, but he still knew enough to cast some slurs against various family members of the scientists asking him questions.  If nothing else, the army had taught him how to swear.

When they returned him to his cell, he paced along the four walls, trying so, so hard not to let the Wolf out and just _howl_.  He wanted to get out, he wanted to be free, he wanted to run and run and escape these crazy people who had so completely disrupted his almost normal life.  He had been _so close_ to getting back to normal, to not being greeted with the sight of Sherlock’s body crumpled on the ground every time he drifted off and being too afraid to sleep.  And Mrs Hudson must have wondered why he’d never come back.  Maybe she thought he’d gone rogue, decided to ditch the human life that had offered him something so fantastic, only to snatch it back again at the cruellest moment.  Or perhaps she thought he’d abandoned her, given her up to go live on his own some place where nobody could bother him.

John’s only hope, and he could practically smell the distaste rolling off himself at the thought, was Mycroft.  Because, despite what he might say, John knew that his involvement with Sherlock meant that ‘big brother’ would never go away.  Sooner or later, Mycroft would notice his absence, but whether or not it would be too late by that point, John didn’t know.

-/-\\-

As the days went by, John started to wonder what the point of it really was.  Sherlock was dead and gone, and despite John’s aversion to being completely dependent on another person, the truth was as simple as that – he had depended on Sherlock to provide him with reasons for being alive.  The adrenaline, the companionship, the acceptance, the _love_.  All of those things had disappeared after Sherlock fell, and John was finding it more and more difficult to find a reason to continue.  He couldn’t help but think, _what for?_

-/-\\-

Mrs Hudson peered at her phone, clumsy fingers navigating to the addresses and attempting to find Mycroft’s number.  She took a deep breath and pressed call, holding the phone up to her ear and wondering what kind of reaction she was going to get.

The phone rang only twice before he picked up.

“Hello?”  
“Mr Holmes,” she started.  
“Who is this?” he demanded.  She bristled at the tone.  
“There’s no need to take that kind of voice with me, young man.  It’s Mrs Hudson.”  
“Oh…”  Mycroft sighed.  “My sincere apologies, Mrs Hudson, may I inquire as to the nature of your call?  
“John and I are in Dartmoor at the moment, and I sent him out for a run last night.  He’d been cooped up for so long after…after, well…and I think it was affecting him a bit.  I noticed he was getting headaches very often, and though of course he never mentioned them to _me_ , I couldn’t help but think it was because he hadn’t let his Wolf out that–”  
“Mrs Hudson, do you mean to tell me that you are aware of the exact nature of John’s, shall we say, physical predicament?”  
“Yes, of course.  I’m sorry, was it a secret?”  
“…No.  Do carry on.”  
“As I was saying, I noticed he was feeling a bit under the weather, the poor dear, so I told him to go out for a run in the Moor at night a couple of days ago, and he seemed so much better afterwards that it just became a regular thing, only…”  
“If you could wind your way to a point sometime soon, that would be marvellous.”  
“He hasn’t come home.  I waited for a couple hours after the time that he usually returns, because I didn’t want to alarm anybody if it turned out nothing was wrong, but then he never made it back.  I thought that if anybody would know where he is, it would be you.  I didn’t know who else to call.”  
“Mrs Hudson, can you please tell me where, _precisely_ , you are staying in Dartmoor?”  
“We’re at my sister’s house, near Ashburton, just on the edge of Dartmoor National Park.”  
“ _Precisely_ , Mrs Hudson.”

She sighed.

“26 Western Road, Newton Abbot TQ13 7ED, United Kingdom.  Are you happy now, Mr Holmes?”

There was a quiet pause on the other end of the line that was as telling as any outbreak of cursing or crying.  In all the times Mrs Hudson had been in his presence, Mycroft Holmes had never found himself lacking the necessary words.

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

He sighed.

“I’m afraid it’s quite serious, Mrs Hudson.  If my suspicions are correct, and to be honest they usually are, then it is highly likely that John has been taken into Baskerville with the sole intent of studying his unique physiology.”  
“Oh, _no_.”  
“Quite.  If you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I have a number of calls to make and strings to pull.  And possibly a small amount of legwork, which I actively despise.”  
“ _Mycroft Holmes you just wait a_ –”

Click.  Silence.

Mrs Hudson stared at her phone, for lack of anything more constructive to do.  _Baskerville_.  She’d heard the stories, the rumours – just like everybody who grew up in Dartmoor had.  She’d lived near the Moor as a child, and she was well aware of the conspiracy theories floating around that dreadful place.

Genetically engineered monsters; weapons that were so powerful even the defence forces weren’t allowed to use them for fear of them falling into enemy hands; unnatural cross-species abominations that could barely be controlled.  Nothing good, she was sure of that.  And they had _John_.  She wrung her hands in front of her and contemplated calling Mycroft again, but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it when she thought about the possibility that she could be dragging him away from whatever he was doing to help John.

All of a sudden, the house seemed very, very quiet, and very, very big.

-/-\\-

The ringing of a call connecting was the only noise to break the silence in Mycroft’s office.  Anthea was still outside, and a few of the lesser minions unfortunate enough to be working the late shift were in the building, but apart from them, Mycroft’s large office building was empty.

The first call rung out, as he’d expected it to.  He sighed nonetheless and tried again, with the same result.  The third time produced still no answer, and he frowned, fully expecting it to have been received that time.  The fourth call was finally picked up on the third last ring, and a short, “What do you _want_ , Mycroft, I’m _busy_ ,” was snapped at him.  
“I suspect you’ll want to listen to the entirety of this conversation, brother mine.”

Sherlock sighed, the sound crackling in static down the line.

“What is it,” he asked briskly.  The sounds of gunfire and shouting could be heard dimly in the background.  
“Oh, have I caught you at a busy time?” Mycroft asked mildly, frowning as he straightened one of the pens on his desk.  Sherlock grunted and he heard another gunshot, this time louder.  
“Not at all, brother dear, just taking care of some rubbish that has been _piling up_.” The last two words were strained, and Mycroft heard the loud grunts and swears that came with hand-to-hand combat, until finally Sherlock picked up the phone again and said, not for the first time, “What do you _want_?”  
“Now, Sherlock, remember what I said about listening to the entirety of the conversation? In addition to that, you should also remember the many times I’ve told you that have a tendency to overreact and become childish in your response to events that you are unhappy with.”  
“I swear to _God_ , Mycroft, if you don’t tell me what this is about right now I will hang up the phone.”

Mycroft cleared his throat briefly, and then dived right into the fray.

“John has been kidnapped, I’m afraid.”

There was a deadly, dangerous silence.

“What.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Are you seriously telling me, completely serious and not joking at all, that someone has kidnapped _John Watson_?”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Because I seem to remember asking you to do one thing while I was gone, Mycroft.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“One thing.  Do _you_ remember, Mycroft?  Evidently not, or this _wouldn’t have happened_!” Sherlock roared.  Mycroft shut his eyes.  “Is Mrs Hudson alive still, or has she been kidnapped too? She hasn’t had a heart attack, has she?  No?  Great.  Fantastic.”  
“Sher–”  
“Shut the _fuck_ up, Mycroft.  I asked you to do _one.  Fucking.  Thing_.  The most _important_ thing that you could have been doing while I’ve been away – protect John Watson.  Protect him with your life, with Anthea’s life, with _England’s_ life, it didn’t fucking matter, he was supposed to be _safe_.  That was the whole _FUCKING POINT_!”  
“Swearing will get you nowhere.”

That was _not_ the best thing to say.

“It’ll fucking make me feel a little fucking better while I think about exactly how to fix this fucking enormous mistake!”  
“I would think it’s obvious – you need to go in to Baskerville and get him.”  
“Baskerville? BASKERVILLE?  _Christ_ , that’s just fantastic.  It will go _splendidly._   I’ll just walk in, shall I?  And what will I say when I see him, hmm?  When I rescue him from whatever mess your incompetence has managed to get him into now, what do _you_ think would be the best course of action? ‘Oh, hi, John.  Nice to see you here in this experimental government facility that I swore you would never go into before I killed myself in front of you to save you from Moriarty.  And guess what?  The best part is that it’s not even him who has you in his clutches – no, it’s just ordinary, everyday government scientists who not only managed to discover that there was a _werewolf_ nearby, but also managed to somehow kidnap you and, what was it again?  Oh yes, experiment on you, that’s right, I’d forgotten.’  Wonderful.  _That will go fucking great, Mycroft._ ”  
“You have become rather more angry and dramatic in your absence, Sherlock.”  
“ _FUCK YOU._ ”

Mycroft sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose while he waited for the phone to ring again.

“Get me in there, Mycroft, unless you want the full wrath of Mummy sicced on you for ruining her son’s life and happiness.”

Sherlock waited in triumphant silence as Mycroft winced and sent the relevant information through.

“The details should be in your phone already, and Anthea will have a flight booked for you within five minutes.”  
“Good.”  
“You’re welcome,” Mycroft hinted.  It still wasn’t the correct thing to say.  
“You don’t get to do that when you got him _and_ me into this mess in the fucking first place.”

Mycroft sighed again, and wondered if alerting Sherlock to John’s predicament had really been the best move.  Surely he could have managed something without letting him know.  But it would have required so much legwork – no, far better to let Sherlock deal with it now.  The hell unleashed upon him in those ten minutes would have been nothing compared to Sherlock’s anger if he’d come back and discovered John had been kidnapped without him knowing about it. Far better for everyone involved, Mycroft though.

He cleared his throat and pressed the button to connect him to Anthea’s desk outside.

“Have the earliest flight possible booked from Belgorod Airport to Heathrow, would you?”  
“Of course, sir.”  
“First class, if at all possible.”

Which meant, _make it possible._

“Yes, sir.”  
“Thank you, Anthea.”

He released the speaker and sat back in his chair, wondering what exactly would constitute a break in his diet.  Then he admonished himself, knowing that fighting with Sherlock always managed to bring out the worst in him.  He packed his papers up and went home, studiously ignoring the chocolate sitting temptingly in his cupboard.

 _Giving in would be letting Sherlock win_.

That managed to stiffen his resolve, if nothing else.

-/-\\-

_In Belgorod, Sherlock Holmes infiltrated a warehouse that operated as the headquarters for a criminal group instrumental to carrying out Moriarty’s plans throughout the world.  He had taken out three of the five guards when, much to the surprise of both Sherlock and the remaining guards, his phone went off._

_“_ Mycroft _!” Sherlock hissed, and shot his last bullet at the larger guard.  He ignored the buzzing on his phone and launched himself at the final man, using the last vestiges of surprise to his advantage and pushing forwards before the guard could recover enough to sound an alarm.  Once the element of surprise had disappeared, however, Sherlock had to work hard to make it an even fight – not only was the guard still much bulkier than he was, this was also his paid job.  Sherlock lacked the physical training, but made up for it with speed and strategy._

_The ugly, unsophisticated brawl lasted for seven minutes, which was seven minutes longer than Sherlock would have liked.  That, combined with the incessant ringing of his phone and the fear of being shot, was enough to make him even snappier with Mycroft than usual._

_And then Mycroft delivered possibly the worst news that Sherlock had ever heard._

_What was the point, what was the_ point _of giving up EVERYTHING, when this made it all for nought?_

 _Sherlock had fought, and lied, and blackmailed, and bribed, and cheated, and killed his way around the globe to keep John safe – other people as well, but_ John _was his priority.  John was, quite possibly, more important than England herself, and coming from Sherlock that was seriously saying something._

_He moved through the rest of the rooms with quick, silent and deadly efficiency, taking shot after shot and never missing._

_He left the building with the remains of the guns he’d touched and a small flame that, after approximately thirteen minutes, would effectively blow the whole warehouse t very small pieces._

_Sherlock stalked forwards, and didn’t look back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interrogation-y bit, as well as another bit I hopefully won't forget to mention next chapter, is loosely inspired by Man and Beast, which is a great werewolf!Sherlock fic. Go read it, enjoy it, and come back here.
> 
> Yay, story excitement! And also swearing, which I warned you would happen. At the end I might post the original version of Mycroft and Sherlock's 'conversation', which was literally in dot points (it has sort of spoilers, which is why I'm waiting).
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading, and taking the time to give kudos/comment if you did so. As always, nothing is mine.  
> Read and enjoy! Enjoooy!


	5. Chapter Five

**Moon Fire**

Chapter Five

A flight from Belgorod to Heathrow takes approximately eight hours and forty-five minutes.  Sherlock spent each one of those thinking about how he was going to save John Hamish Watson.  Within minutes of landing and pushing past more than a few very irritated passengers, Sherlock had bribed someone to give him his luggage and was on his way to Heathrow Central Bus Station, Stands 9 and 10 (a journey that was meant to take him nine minutes walking – neither Google nor transport direct accounted for Sherlock Holmes in a hurry). The bus, which Mycroft had also provided tickets for, takes approximately three hours and forty-five minutes to get to Exeter City Centre, Bus Station, Bay 16.  Sherlock spent each one of those wondering how John would react to seeing him alive.  A taxi takes approximately twenty-nine minutes to get to 26 Western Road, Ashburton.  Sherlock spent each one of those realising he was on his way to Mrs Hudson, and that he should probably think of an explanation for her.

And yet, despite focusing his not inconsiderable brainpower on that explanation, by the time the taxi had pulled into the driveway Sherlock hadn’t been able to think of anything better than turning up at her door, knocking, and saying, “ _I need to rescue John_ ” when she answered.

He took a deep breath, paid the cab driver, and pulled his luggage along to the front door.  He knocked three times, took another breath and waited for the door to open.

A minute passed and he frowned.  He knocked again, louder this time.  He heard footsteps seconds later, getting louder as they came towards the door.  Although…they were _quite_ loud.  Certainly louder than Mrs Hudson’s usual tread.  Was something wrong with her?  Mycroft hadn’t mentioned anything about her when he’d called (and a fire still burned low in Sherlock’s stomach at the memory of that conversation and the anger it had invoked), but what if something had happened since then?

The door opened, and so did Sherlock’s mouth, ready to ask if she was okay.  And then he saw her face.

Mrs Hudson was very, very angry.

“I am about to have serious words with you, young man, so if you’d like to be a coward and go and hide for another eighteen months, then by all means feel free to leave now.”

Sherlock’s mouth closed abruptly.  He stared at her for a moment, and then gave a little shake of his head.

“Good.  Come in.”

He picked up his bag and walked through the door.  It slammed behind him and he flinched.

Mrs Hudson was very angry indeed.

She waited until he was seated at the kitchen table, a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits in front of him, before she ripped into him.

“Sherlock Holmes.  Do you fully understand the repercussions of your actions?  Do you?  I don’t care why you left, why you decided you had to fake your death rather than confide in any of the people who love you, but you need to face up to the things that have happened in your absence.  No, don’t talk.”

Sherlock didn’t.

“John Watson has faded away.  He is a photocopy of the man he was when he was with you.  Do you understand?  I know you loved him, I know that you still do – I can see it in your eyes, and no doubt that’s why you’ve come back – but he adored you with everything he had.  You made him alive again!  You made him and his Wolf so, so happy.  _Yes I know about him that is not what’s important right now._   You need to know that he wasted away, thinking you were dead and never coming back.  You’d better work hard to deserve that man again, Sherlock, because if I even think that you will leave him alone again you’d better hope that we’re not somewhere isolated because I will maim you and hide the body parts.”

There were a couple seconds of very loud silence.

Mrs Hudson started crying.  Sherlock stood up cautiously, and lifted his arms to her.  She wound her own around his waist and pressed her face against his shoulder, sobbing quietly.  He bent his head and whispered,

“I will never deserve that man, Mrs Hudson.  I never did.  And yes, he’s the reason I came back, but he is also the reason I left in the first place, because he was about to get hurt in the crossfire and I couldn’t let that happen.  And if I ever leave him alone again, I’ll hide the body parts myself.”  
“You stupid, _stupid_ man,” she muttered.  “We’ve missed you so.”

They held each other for a while longer, but eventually Sherlock disentangled himself and bent slightly to look her in the eye.

“I need to go and find him.  I would never forgive myself if something happened to him like this.”

Mrs Hudson looked away and wiped her eyes, then nodded.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Mycroft has organised everything.  I’m hoping that it won’t take me very long, but there is a large element of unpredictability here.  I don’t know who these people are, or how they managed to take him, or how they even figured out John was a werewolf in the first place.  Mycroft will have one of his assistants bring me an ID card for Baskerville, and I’ll be undercover as a new worker there.  They’ll no doubt have me under scrutiny for the first few days, but as soon as they start to leave me alone I’ll be able to find him and get him out of there.  I _will_ save him, Mrs Hudson.  Don’t think for one second that any of them will stand in my way.”

-/-\\-

John had changed.  Not physically, but mentally.  He still hadn’t let the Wolf out, and had constant headaches to show for the forced containment, but that certainly didn’t mean the Wolf wasn’t _there_.  Everything he did, every move he made, was tainted by the Wolf.  The number of scientists observing him had increased, possibly doubled, over the last few days.  John was afraid of himself, afraid for himself, afraid that he was going mad.

He couldn’t stay still.  He paced around the walls of his glass cage, snarling at the humans when they got too close.

(The first time he’d thought that, made the distinction between himself and ‘the humans’, he had stopped and wondered what was happening to him, wondered if _he_ was still human or if he changed beyond hope, but by the fourth time it happened he no longer worried about it.)

They no longer took him out of his cage for tests, no longer gave him anything to do to distract himself from the numbing monotony.  They were terrified of him, he could tell.  Fascinated, but terrified all the same.

When he could stop himself from pacing, he couldn’t stop himself from rocking slightly on the spot, shifting his feet restlessly and making quick, aborted movements of his head like he was scenting something in the distance, or trying to hear a far off sound.  He thought it was better to just keep pacing.  When he lay down it was no longer on his back, but on his side with his arms and legs stretched out, or on his stomach with his limbs tucked underneath him.  He no longer knew how to sit cross-legged.

Dimly, in the distant, still-human part of his mind, John knew that the scientists would be having a field day – ‘Oh, look at the werewolf, just a savage man with animal instincts and no manners’.  That part of him wanted to tell them “ _No,_ I am human just like you, I had someone once and I loved him so dearly but he was taken away from me, just like you’ve taken away my humanity and now look what I’ve become”.  But he couldn’t, because the Wolf wouldn’t let him speak.

_Let me out_ , It was saying, pleading desperately.  _I am stronger than you, I am faster than you, I can help you._

No.  They will hurt you and poke you and prod you and treat you like nothing more than an animal.

_I am an animal._

But you are not only that.

_No_ , It eventually agreed.  _I am not only that._

John wondered again if he was going mad.

-/-\\-

When the ID card arrived from Mycroft, Sherlock put on jeans, converse, a t-shirt, and a cardigan, and then he slicked his hair back and put on glasses.  He arrived at Baskerville and played the quiet little scientist, excited for the change but nervous in a new space with unknown people.  He was very interested in the behavioural patterns of humans, especially the way in which they correlated with the body language of animals.

Dr Stapleton made a note on his form and told him that, if he was lucky, he’d be able to observe the very interesting specimen they’d recently acquired.  Sherlock tried to look excited and curious, while disappointed that he couldn’t see it right then, and tried to hide the rage that blossomed up inside of him at the thought of John becoming an ‘interesting specimen’.

John was never just a specimen, an experiment to be observed and concluded and then filed away with no more use – John was an ever shifting, ever changing puzzle, with new facets to be discovered all the time, and that was truly the highest compliment Sherlock could give.

He played his role as best he could, and within two weeks he had received word that he would be taken to see the specimen.  He tried to look eager, he _was_ eager, though not for the reasons Stapleton thought, and counted down the hours until he could see his partner again.

_John I am so sorry that I allowed this to happen to you_.

-/-\\-

Sherlock was led down to the bottom floor of Baskerville, into the secret rooms that even some of the other scientists didn’t know of, and every step made it harder for him to breathe.  What would he find down there?  How long had they had him, now?  Three weeks, four?  Too long, whatever the answer was.

Stapleton showed him to the front of an enormous, white, bright room, and said proudly,

“The first ever werewolf captured and studied.  We weren’t even sure they existed, you know.  They we heard sightings of a big dog roaming around the Moor in the evenings and a couple of our animal experts went out during the day to look at tracks – it was remarkably simple for us to take him down.  He wasn’t expecting it, and we made sure to be properly prepared.”

Sherlock had started ignoring her after her fourth word.

_John_.

He was lying on the floor, back facing them and legs sprawled out in front of him.

_Like an animal_ , Sherlock thought. _Too much like an animal._

In all the time he’d watched John after learning of his nature, Sherlock had never seen him exhibit any particularly wolf-like behaviour.  He liked head massages and enjoyed lying on Sherlock, but Sherlock enjoyed that too, so he couldn’t count it as something outside the realm of normal human behaviour.  (Humans did far weirder things during sex, anyway, John was positively vanilla compared to some people.)

But this…this was not natural.  This was the evidence of a man who had been broken, and was no longer sure where he stood within his own mind.

Sherlock barely restrained himself from reaching out to the glass.  Instead he swallowed and, hoping his voice would carry enough to offer John some sort of comfort or hope, asked,

“Has anybody interacted with him?  Or has he just been observed from a distance?”

He looked into the room from the corner of his eye but couldn’t see any movement.

“We originally asked him questions and managed to get him to cooperate enough to perform some physical experiments, but lately he’s become withdrawn and quiet.  Not that he was exactly verbose earlier, but he did enjoy taunting the guards.  He’s apathetic now, is how I would describe it, but that makes him unpredictable and we’re honestly too cautious to continue any of the experiments.”  
“Would you consider sending someone in there?”

Stapleton scoffed quietly.

“We all remember how he was when he was acting out – none of us are likely to risk going in there, even for the sake of research.  Despite the flexibility here, we still can’t send someone in without their full consent.”  
“I’ll do it,” Sherlock said without hesitation.  Stapleton looked at him incredulously.  
“Are you serious?”  
“Yes.”  
“He’ll tear you apart.”

Sherlock shrugged, stopping himself from saying, “ _I’d deserve it”_.

“All for the sake of research.”

She looked at him, and Sherlock saw the moral side of her warring with her thirst for knowledge.  He knew what would win out – neither he nor John would be in this situation if she had particularly strong morals.  Or any morals at all.

“Alright then.  We’ll bring you in in a couple of days, get you kitted with some protective gear and a tranquiliser, and then we’ll see what happens.”

Sherlock nodded and returned his gaze to the lump on the floor.

_I will fix this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's internal monologue about the Wolf being not only an animal was the other bit partially inspired by Man and Beast. Seriously, go read it. Although there is sex, just so you know. And a fair bit of nakedness, from what I can remember. Whatever.  
> Is it weird that John's slightly-crazy bits are my favourite? Maybe. They are, though.  
> As always, hope you're enjoying the ride! :)  
> Cheers


	6. Chapter Six

**Moon Fire**

Chapter Six

They fitted Sherlock with protective, padded clothing and a tranquiliser gun.  Somebody gave him a remote and told him to press the button if he wanted them to interfere.  They would be watching him the whole time, they assured him, but as soon as he started to feel uncomfortable he could activate the remote and help would be on its way within seconds.  He disregarded the information as soon as it was given, not even bothering to waste time acknowledging it before deleting.  He’d almost refused the tranquiliser too, but suspected it wouldn’t be worth the suspicions raised – he could easily ditch it when he got inside

It had been three days since he’d made the offer of interacting with ‘the werewolf’ to Stapleton.  Three days spent waiting in painful tension, wondering what John would do when he realised that Sherlock was not only emphatically _not dead_ , but also reappearing on his proverbial doorstep after being gone for a year and a half.

John was somewhat violent in nature (even though he hated it), prone to outbursts that were usually, but not always, aimed at furniture, and Sherlock had witnessed his terrifying angry smile enough times to know it preceded a much more painful event.  Sherlock was doubly worried about unpleasant outcomes considering John’s current state.

Sherlock took a deep breath, waiting at the door of the room.  John was still sleeping (they had timed his arrival to be at the end of John’s sleep cycle, theorising that he would be most approachable when still foggy from sleep – they hadn’t seen John snap to alert in seconds after his nightmares, so Sherlock was not exactly reassured) and he didn’t seem to be stirring yet.  The door opened at the signal from Stapleton, and Sherlock shot back a thumbs-up to show he was still fine.  He stepped into the room, hearing the door close sharply behind him and feeling the weight of the scientists looking on intently.

He had refused a microphone, stating that the noise and static would be distressing to the ‘specimen’ and that he didn’t really want to lower the chance of survival without injury any further – he had never been so glad for his acting skills.

“John?” Sherlock called out hesitantly.  The pile of limbs on the floor rustled slightly, and then went still again.  Sherlock took the tranquiliser gun from his pocket and placed it on the floor beside him.  He started slowly stripping off his protective gear and ignored what was sure to be a flurry of activity from outside the room, attempting to make himself look as little like a threat as possible.

“John,” he tried again, dropping the padded jacket to the ground with a quiet _thump_.  John stirred this time, his head coming up off the floor but still not turning towards Sherlock.  Sherlock kneeled, placing his arms at his sides and tilting his head back slightly so that his neck was bared.  He had studied up on submissive signs in animals, not wanting to set off any of John’s alpha male instincts.

Slowly, so slowly, John pushed himself up on to all fours, spending a worrying amount of time looking down at the ground, and then rose to a crouch.  Sherlock sucked in a breath unconsciously, getting his first good look at John in eighteen months.

He hadn’t shaved in weeks, and the moustache-beard combo made him look decades older and much more haggard than he had ever appeared with Sherlock.  His eyes had the dangerous look of a man who knew he was in a threatening situation.  He seemed more like the Wolf in that moment than Sherlock had ever seen him before.

Sherlock was not prepared for what came next.

In his Mind Palace, Sherlock had predicted a number of events that would be the result of John seeing him in a hostile situation.  He had reasoned that John would be on the offensive after weeks of capture, and would be looking for a way out.  He was prepared to be attacked, to become an aggressor and a threat.

He had not anticipated John’s reaction.  That, at least, had not changed.

John lunged toward him, then stopped abruptly, still three steps away from Sherlock.  He cocked his head and stared.  For one heart-stopping moment, Sherlock wondered if John had forgotten him.  Then, John stepped forward cautiously and one of his hands reached out to settle across Sherlock’s still-bared throat.

Sherlock remained still and silent.  He wasn’t sure what John was thinking at that point, whether he was acting primarily as Man or Wolf.

John’s fingers stretched along the column of skin, squeezing momentarily.  He stooped and brought his face closer to Sherlock’s.  He looked carefully at Sherlock’s eyes and saw something in there.  Later, the detective would think back to the moment and wonder exactly what it was, but right then he didn’t think about it, couldn’t think about it.  Not when John had stepped back and removed his hand from Sherlock’s neck.  Not when John had tipped his head back towards the ceiling, opened his mouth, and _howled_.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open.  He had heard John howl before, of course, but this was something different – this was real, and raw, and pure.  John ran out of breath, heaved in another lungful of air, and then howled again.  Not really sure what was happening but nevertheless feeling like it was the right thing to do, Sherlock cleared his throat quietly and joined in.

The sound of their howls mixed through the room, echoing off the walls until it sounded like a dozen of them were in there.  Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw scientists hurrying back and forth, collecting data and pointing into the cage.  When John’s howl died out and he didn’t repeat it, Sherlock inched forward and whispered,

“John.”

His flatmate’s head snapped towards him and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but all that came out was a growl.  Sherlock snatched back the arm he had tentatively extended and watched with morbid fascination as John clutched his head, shaking it back and forth, and then, _then_ , the Wolf burst out.

Sherlock could practically hear Stapleton’s head exploding.

The Wolf turned in a circle once, and then stalked toward Sherlock.  He had never been frightened of the Wolf before, knowing on some level that it was still John in there, and John would never hurt him.  Now, he wasn’t so sure.  He didn’t know if John was present anymore, or if he had simply been swallowed up by the entity of the Wolf.  It came closer, and closer, until (with no small amount of relief) Sherlock saw the alertness in Its eyes.  It knew who Sherlock was, It knew he was not a threat, and, at the very least, It knew that Sherlock was Its best bet for getting out.

The Wolf lowered Its head and nuzzled Sherlock’s jaw gently, swiping Its tongue over his cheek.

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispered.  “Truly, I am.  I will get you out of here, I swear.  I have a plan, but I need to know that you trust me, regardless of how little I deserve it at the moment.”

The Wolf huffed a breath over Sherlock’s hair.  He closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” he breathed. Slowly, telegraphing fear in every movement, he reached for the tranquiliser gun that was still on the ground beside him and said, “Growl at me.”

It whined and cocked Its head.

“Growl at me!” Sherlock urged.  The Wolf did, though it was half-hearted at best.  Sherlock frowned.  “Come on, you can do better than that!”

The Wolf _roared_.

Sherlock grabbed the gun, disabled it quickly while it was out of view, and then pressed it to the Wolf’s side.

“Play dead,” he said, and winked.  The Wolf rolled Its eyes, but did as he said and slumped over.  Right on to Sherlock.  "Uff,” he wheezed, wriggling out from underneath Its body.  “You’re heavy,” he hissed.  He thought he heard an odd sort of chuckling sound, but chose to ignore it.

Instead, Sherlock focused on looking appropriately terrified and pointed at the door.

“Please!” he cried, “Let me out!”

The door opened after only a moment of hesitation and he was halfway towards it before he yelled, “John, _go_!”

The Wolf surged to Its feet and bolted out of the room, Sherlock close behind It.  He reloaded the tranquiliser gun as they ran and fired at the first guard they came across.  The other scientists struggled to get out of the small booth and intercept their escape attempt.  Sherlock was determined not to let that happen.

“Wait, wait,” he called, and paused to search the unconscious guard for weapons.  He found two other tranquilisers and a loaded gun, and grinned in satisfaction.  “Alright, go.”

They took off again, Sherlock firing at whomever they encountered, starting with tranquiliser darts and then shooting to maim with the other gun.  They skidded around a corner and came to a sliding halt before the lift.  The Wolf barked, and Sherlock turned to see It looking at him meaningfully and gesturing towards the buttons.

“Just give me a second!”

Sherlock shot another round at the head poking around the corner and reached back to slam the up button.  He fired two more shots before the doors opened, and then they darted in hurriedly and Sherlock jabbed the ‘doors closed’ sign.

There was a moment of quiet, where they looked at each other with joy and triumph bright in their eyes.

The Wolf was the first to look away, and It padded to the other side of the lift, looking towards the doors and waiting to be let out.  Sherlock swallowed around the lump that had mysteriously appeared in his throat and turned away as well.

When the doors opened they both tensed, but there was no one in the hall.  Having had enough experience to view the lack of security as suspicious rather than auspicious, they walked out quickly and quietly, working together to make sure each hallway was safe before entering.  The deep silence made them increasingly nervous.  Sherlock’s hand had wound itself into the fur at the back of the Wolf’s neck and it was a mark of how tense they both were that It allowed the action.

Slowly, carefully, and in absolute silence, the two of them crept ever closer to the exit.  Sherlock knew they were close – not only because he had thoroughly memorised the layout of their escape route, but also because the Wolf’s ears pricked up and, though they tried to keep their steady pace, walking became trotting, and then running when they caught sight of the doors.

Later, Sherlock will feel stupid ( _so stupid!_ ) because he should have seen it coming, should have known it couldn’t have been so easy.  Right then, however, all either of them could think about was freedom and escape.

They burst through the doors and outside, blinking quickly in the glaring light.  Sherlock practically _whooped_ , the Wolf barked joyfully, and they turned to each other to celebrate.

Sherlock’s smile stopped.  Faded.

There, shining merrily on the fur between the Wolf’s eyes, was a red dot.  The very same that were used to aim a sniper rifle.

From the look on the Wolf’s snout, there was one on Sherlock too.

“Well, well, well,” drawled a hatefully familiar voice.  “Isn’t _this_ a surprise?”

Sherlock swallowed, turned, and stared into the eyes of a dead man.

“I have to tell you, Sherlock, I’m a bit disappointed at how easy it was to get you out here.  Threaten that little pet of yours and you jump every time.  Only this time there’s no safety net.”

Moriarty smiled.

“It was cute for a while, watching you scurry around, thinking you’d figured out all of my plans, but then you actually started to get close and, well,” he shrugged.  “We couldn’t have that.”

Sherlock’s vision swam in front of his eyes and he swayed on the spot.  The world seemed to _shift_ for a moment, before settling back down, still slightly off-centre.

Moriarty whistled loudly, and shouted,

“Heel!”

Next to Sherlock, the Wolf’s ears pricked up and It trotted to Moriarty’s side.  When It cocked Its head and looked at Sherlock, there was no compassion in Its eyes, nothing to indicate any love or affection.

“John – what – ?”  
“You wouldn’t believe what can happen in eighteen months, Sherlock.”  
“ _No_.  John, whatever he has on you, whatever he’s done, I can fix it, I promise.”

The Wolf merely snarled at him.

‘ _You left_ ,’ It seemed to say.  ‘ _You were gone for more than a year.  You can’t fix that._ ’

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered and he gripped his head in his hands, willing himself to concentrate.  Something wasn’t right.  _Something_.

 **Fact:** John would _never_ turn to Moriarty for anything.  
 **Hypothesis one:** This wasn’t John.

He disregarded that, of course it was John.

 **Hypothesis two:** Something else was happening and Sherlock, loathe though he was to admit it, didn’t know what was going on.

Moriarty’s grin widened at Sherlock’s struggle for clarity.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, you know.  We would have been done with him in another few weeks – two months and the most, and then you could have had him back without this ridiculous struggle.”  Moriarty’s mouth opened and he could see it say the words, but something was off, it didn’t match up with the sound, the pacing was too fast, the voice too feminine, it wasn’t him, it couldn’t be, he was dead, something was _wrong_.

Sherlock clutched his hair and pulled at it, using the pain to ground himself.

 **Fact:** Moriarty was dead.  Mycroft had confirmed it and Sherlock had seen it for himself.  He was absolutely, definitely _dead_.  
 **Fact:** John was good, kind, loyal.  Even if Moriarty was alive (and he _wasn’t_ ), John wouldn’t defect to his side.  His morals would never allow it.  
 **Fact:** He and John had just escaped from an experimental research facility.  
 **Hypothesis three:** He, and possibly John, had been dosed with something that was causing hallucinations.  
 **Extended hypothesis:**   _Nothing was quite real_.

His brain finally kicked into first gear.  He could admit to being scared – terrified – as they made their escape, of so many different things all at once.  What if John would blame him for his capture, what if John was no longer there and the Wolf had swallowed his identity completely, what if they didn’t make it out, what if it _was_ his fault, what if (despite _everything_ he knew to the contrary) Moriarty was still alive and had captured John in order to lure Sherlock back?

He had expected the worst while hoping for the best.  Never a good combination, ask anyone with an overactive imagination.

 **Hypothesis three continued:**   The drug he had been dosed with was some kind of hallucinatory drug that preyed on the subject’s fear and brain activity.

There was…something.  Something that whispered in the back of his mind that he knew what was happening, that he knew what this was if only he could stop and _think_.

“I really am sorry to do this, you know.  It would have been so interesting to look at you two – I can only imagine what MRI scans of your brain would be like.  I’m sure the cure for cancer is locked away in your head somewhere, if only you cared enough to look for it.  Frankly, I’m kicking myself that I didn’t recognise you at first.  It’s astonishing what a slouch and a pair of glasses can do for you, Mr Holmes.”

That voice.  That _voice_.  It was familiar – female, crisp, authoritative.

**Disregard Molly.  
Disregard Mrs Hudson.**

Who else did he know?

**Disregard Donovan.**

He didn’t know many people at all, and women occupied a small percentage of those he could call acquaintances; _surely_ it couldn’t be this hard?

 **Possibilities:**   Anthea

and

Dr Stapleton.

Of _course_ it was Stapleton – who else could have organised to have them dosed by the drug so efficiently?  She’d probably quarantined one of the corridors and sent the gas through the air vents as they hurried through.  Increased respiration through tension and physical exertion, increased intake of the drug.

If it wasn’t being used on him, he’d probably be quite impressed.

However, seeing as it _was_ him, and more importantly John, all Sherlock could think was,

’ _You bloody bastard._ ’

“Anyway – you brought it on yourself by barging in here and taking government property.  I’m afraid that’s quite frowned upon here.  We like our secrets at Baskerville.”

Government property, that sounded familiar.  Ah yes, the reliability of the minor civil servant.  You could always rely on them to come in late and leave early, and somehow still get the job done.

Through the haze of the hallucinogen, Sherlock dragged his eyes open and saw Stapleton standing where Moriarty had been minutes before.  She had brought back up ( _clever woman_ ) and had three people training guns on the Wolf while she pointed her own at Sherlock steadily.

“My apologies, Mr Holmes.  It truly is a shame to get rid of a mind such as yours.”

Sherlock heard, dimly in the fog of the drugged and uncertain, a shot, a roar, and a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quelle surprise, non? (Oui) Well hopefully, at least. I'm hoping the whole thing wasn't transparently obvious from the start...
> 
> You're lucky you're getting this today, you know. I'm on music camp so I had to put EFFORT into getting this up on time...  
> Whatever.
> 
> Merci beaucoup!  
> Foxboxtango  
> (I don't even do French - I haven't done French for four years...why I am being ridiculous?)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Moon Fire**

Chapter Seven

Sherlock woke suddenly, slamming with a jolt back into awareness.  He tried to sit up, but his head made it only centimetres off his pillow before his vision blacked out and he fell back down.  Involuntarily, he made a noise that sort of sounded like, “Erk”.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, you’ve had a bit of a bad time of it.”  The voice was cool, calm, and vaguely disinterested.  Sherlock peeled his eyelids apart through sheer force of will and squinted in the general direction of the voice.  After a moment, the blurred figure turned out to be Anthea, her ever-present Blackberry held tightly in her fingers and demanding her attention even as she held out a cup of water and a straw.

Sherlock took both thoughtfully and continued to look at her, settling back into his pillow with a wince.

“You were there,” he rasped.  He thought about coughing, and then decided that finding out how much it would hurt wasn’t worth it.  “At Baskerville, you were there.  You were the shooter.”

Anthea’s lips pursed.

“Yes,” she agreed crisply.  “And I’d thank you not to put me in that position again, Mr Holmes, because I quite like the theoretical aspect of my job.  My employer and I share a distaste for legwork.”

Sherlock smirked half-heartedly and rolled his eyes, glad to find out that it didn’t cause him any pain.

“I’ve seen your file, Anthea, I hardly think that legwork is the issue here.”

She took her eyes away from her phone for the first time since he’d woken and fixed him with a sharp stare.

“Never do that again, Sherlock.  There are more people who care about you than you think.”

He swallowed, and gave a small nod.

“Good.” Anthea stood and returned her attention to her phone.  “Will that be all, Mr Holmes? You brother is waiting outside, as is Mrs Hudson.”

John was conspicuously absent from the list.

“I don’t suppose you could tell them I’ve gone back to sleep, could you?”  
“Sure.”

She opened the door, walked out, and left it open.  Sherlock sighed.  She _always_ did that.

“Good to see you awake and already refusing my presence, Sherlock,” Mycroft said silkily.  Sherlock rolled his eyes again, just because he could.  
“Keep Mrs Hudson out for the moment,” he said.

Mycroft inclined his head and shut the door behind him with a quick, “Just a minute, Mrs Hudson”.

There was a short silence while they stared at each other.

“Stop doing this,” Mycroft said shortly.  “You’re sending Mummy into an early grave.”  
“ _I’m_ sending her into an early grave?  That’s rich, coming from someone who blackmails the Taliban. Or don’t you tell her what you do anymore, to save her the heart palpitations?”

Neither of them smiled, but there was something in the air of the room that indicated gratitude and understanding.

“Where’s John?”

The compassionate atmosphere disappeared.

“He’s not doing very well, Sherlock.  They kept him like that for weeks on end, with very little food and no company or stimulation.  He’s a bit lost at the moment, I’m afraid.”  
“Is that why he didn’t come?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

“I would imagine that he hasn’t visited you because he has cultivated quite a fear of sterile rooms and white walls.”

Sherlock sighed.

“What happened?  I got hit with some kind of hallucinogenic gas, but I don’t remember much else.”  
“You were dosed with a deliriant drug, labelled Project HOUND.  Strangely fitting, for the circumstances.  It was a project that began in a CIA facility in Liberty, Indiana.  It was theoretically going to be used as an anti-personnel weapon to disorientate the enemy, but it had severely negative side effects and they decided to shut it down in 1986.  Dr Stapleton’s colleague Dr Bob Franklin had continued to carry on the research for HOUND on his own, and when Stapleton discovered him and the potential for its use, she either bribed or threatened him into letting her use it.  It was quite well-executed, actually.”  
“I’m aware.  I assume she quarantined one of the corridors and sent the gas through the vents while John and I were escaping – as long as she sent it through a filter afterwards there would have been no trace of it left in the building.  We would have never known.”  
“Quite. Clearly, she underestimated you sheer stubbornness.  It’s unlikely that she’d seen anybody pull themselves back that quickly after being affected.”  
“What happened to her?”

Mycroft peered at him.

“No doubt you mentioned something to Anthea about her being at the scene.  I would appreciate if you didn’t annoy her too much; it’s very difficult to find new employees as good as she is and I don’t want to have to go through the trouble of finding someone new.”  
“Fine, fine.  Now will you tell me what happened?”  
“Anthea managed to intercept Stapleton just as she’d cornered you and John.  She sent a warning shot near Stapleton and directed her and her people to put their weapons down, but they must have had some exposure to the HOUND gas as well because they reacted more strongly than we’d anticipated.  Stapleton managed to get a shot off at you, though luckily she was already disorientated and just grazed your side.  If Anthea had been any later, you’d be in a lot more pain than you already are.”  
“I will be sure to send her a gift basket for her duties,” Sherlock muttered, and then asked, “Where is Stapleton now? They must have been easy picking after being hit with the gas, so what have you done to them?”

Mycroft looked innocently at Sherlock, who snorted.  Mycroft had never been able to do innocent well.

“They’re in quite a secure holding cell while the few people privy to the knowledge of werewolves discuss what to the do with them.  Some of the more rural werewolves – almost pack leaders, for want of a better word – are howling for blood.”  He smiled thinly.  “If you’ll excuse the expression.  They consider it quite an egregious act to kidnap one of their own, and it seems John has made a few friends in his travels, luckily for him.  At the moment it is looking likely that they’ll serve a minimum ten year sentence, Stapleton fifteen to twenty, perhaps, seeing as she was the ringleader.  After that, they’ll theoretically be free, but someone will be watching to make sure they don’t try anything like this again.  All of their research will be taken and destroyed, of course, several people will make sure that it is not handed on to others who might misuse it.”

Sherlock looked pleased at the prospect of Stapleton’s career being ruined.

“I want to talk to her.”  
“That is not a good idea.”  
“All I want to do is ask her some questions.”  
“Last time you spoke face-to-face with someone who had threatened or hurt John, you jumped off a building!” Mycroft said crisply.  Sherlock pursed his lips, then muttered “fine” and looked away.  
“Where is John staying now?” he asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.  
“He remains with Mrs Hudson at her sister’s house.  I would suggest letting them know before you decide to swing by unexpectedly,” he said knowingly, and walked towards the door.  “I will give your regards to Mrs Hudson, and tell her that you’ve unfortunately fallen asleep.”  
“Right.”  
“Oh, just one more thing before I forget.”  Mycroft paused, mere steps before the door. “I’ve put people around the hallways and outside your window.  Despite being two stories up, I’ve finally learnt not to underestimate your desire to flee medical facilities no matter what your condition.  Stay for three days, heal, and then you’ll be let out without a problem.  After all, you were shot.”  
“It’s just a graze, Mycroft.”  
“Yes.  Well.  That’s not what Mummy said when she found out.”

Sherlock choked.

“What?”  
“Farewell, brother mine.  I’d expect a visitor tomorrow, at the latest.”  
“Mycroft!  Did you tell Mother!”  
“Toodle-ooh.”  
“ _Mycroft!_ ”

-/-\\-

Mrs Hudson sat on the back porch of her sister’s house and gently ran a brush through the fur on the Wolf’s head.

“You’re going to have to change back sooner or later,” she said.  The Wolf huffed and hunkered down further.  “Honestly, John.  You can’t stay like this forever.”  She put the brush down next to her and moved to crouch in front of the Wolf’s snout.  “I am fully aware of the emotions that you are currently trying to process regarding the return of a dear friend, and I know that you’re feeling very conflicted at the moment, but please trust me when I say that it will be better for you to face those emotions head on, instead of slinking around them and using those magnificent avoidance skills you’ve been cultivating.”

The Wolf whined, but there was a resigned tone to it, and something told Mrs Hudson that she’d be seeing John’s face again soon.

“Good.”  She stood, mumbling quietly at her knees as they creaked and cracked.  The Wolf huffed again, this time in amusement, and she swatted Its nose.  “That’s enough out of you, young man.”

She walked inside, leaving the back door open for him, and John was left alone.  The Wolf rose slowly, stretching out its legs and back, and then trotted around for a couple of seconds.  He wasn’t quite sure what it would be like to change back.  Even when he’d physically been John, he’d been thinking in terms of Wolf for such a long time that he thought it would be quite weird to walk around on two legs and talk like a normal human being again.

_Well, nothing ever got done just by thinking about it._

He stretched again, ready to change back, when the sound of tyres crunching on the gravel driveway reached him.  The Wolf pricked Its ears up and stalked silently to the back gate, where It had a clear view of the front.

Oh, bollocks.

Sherlock, still looking a bit bruised and battered, limped his way out of the taxi (ungraceful for perhaps the first time John has seen) and hobbled towards the door.  Tentatively ( _tentatively, for crying out loud, John had never seen the man so cowed_ ), Sherlock knocked on the door, shifting anxiously as he waited for a response.

Right.  That settled it.

John had thought about Sherlock coming back, dreamed about it and hoped against rational hope that he would do so.  The scene played out in different ways each time; a hug, a punch, a kiss, a shag, but in all of those scenarios he’d always pictured Sherlock as, well, _Sherlock_.  Arrogant, rude, confident, hardly apologising to John before sweeping him up in a whirlwind and lifting him off to madness and danger.  John had never once imagined this tall, nervous stranger coming back to wonder if he still had a home.

Ridiculous.  Utterly ridiculous.

He was still angry, of course he was, but he wasn’t going to send Sherlock away without listening to a single word of explanation.  He was quite sure he’d still be angry _after_ the explanation, as well, but at least he could be angry at Sherlock while he was there, instead of feeling a nameless outrage at the world in general like he had for the last eighteen months.

The Wolf padded into the house and sat near the back door, tongue lolling out of Its mouth as It waited for the detective to come down the hallway.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson greeted warmly, and the Wolf heard Sherlock kiss her on the cheek.  “John should be through the back.”  
“Ah…I just wanted to ask you to pass on my well wishes, Mrs Hudson.  I might come back tomorrow, but I wanted to give him enough time to…”

The silence that followed told John that Mrs Hudson was similarly astounded.

“Are you sure, dear?  You don’t want to come in?”  
“No, thank you.”

If that was how he wanted to play it, fine.

John stood up on two feet, his mouth set in a grim line.  He was shaky as he started walking, but annoyance made him bold, and soon he was striding up the hallway to the mad bastard who had completely turned his character around and refused to bloody come and see the partner he’d left behind.

“If you think you’re getting away that easy, you’ve got another thing coming,” John informed the hall, knowing his voice would carry up to the front door.  He rounded the corner angrily and came to an abrupt stop.  Sherlock looked _miserable_ , a card held tightly in his hand, unhappy lines around his eyes, and ridiculous, too-long hair flopping in front of his eyes.  John reached out, grabbed him by the front of his coat, and pulled him back to the yard, nodding once at Mrs Hudson on the way.  She hid a smile from Sherlock by turning to close the door behind them.

Sherlock was completely bewildered.  John could feel it, the tension racking his shoulders up around his ears as John marched them deeper into the house; he clearly expected to be set up in front of a firing squad, and John rolled his eyes at the drama.

The day was warm and any morning dew had long since disappeared, so John took full advantage of the nice weather and continued to drag Sherlock out onto the grass.  Once in the backyard, John promptly flipped Sherlock onto his back and lay down on top of him, resting his chin on the detective's collarbone.

There was a minute of shocked silence from Sherlock, and contemplative quiet from John, who was trying to get his thoughts in order enough that when he spoke it was going to come out at least partially intelligible.

“I’m angry at you,” he informed Sherlock serenely.  “But I am also unbearably happy to have you back, and sincerely grateful to you for getting me out of there.  I will want an explanation, and it had better be fantastic and _true_ , but for the moment we are going to lie here and enjoy the fact that you are back, and I am back, and I am also not insane, and we are together.  Understood?”

Sherlock nodded and tentatively ( _God, Sherlock, man up a bit_ ) wrapped his arms around John.  John wriggled further into the embrace, ignoring what was sure to be delighted cooing from Mrs Hudson inside the house, and enjoyed the moment.

He might have enjoyed the moment a bit too much, because when he woke up it was dark, and Sherlock was prodding him in the side.

“You have been lying on me for three hours now.  There is a rock in my back that I was able to ignore for the first two hours, but since has no doubt worked its way into a bruise.  Also, I think I’ve been bitten by at least seven mosquitoes.”

John grinned at him.

“All perks of having me back to annoy you.”

Sherlock’s expression softened, and he swept a hand over John’s shoulders.

“I am truly sorry for any and every pain I have caused you, John Watson,” he said sincerely.  “And if you really are unbearably happy that I am back, then I am similarly unutterably glad that you feel that way.  But I would also like to go inside now.”

John laughed, rolled off him, and stood, offering his hand to help Sherlock up.

“I really am.  I’m not the only one either.”  John cocked his head.  “He’s happy too.”

Sherlock smiled at him, free of any tension or worry.

“Good.”

John lent in and kissed Sherlock chastely, grinning helplessly against his lips before pulling back and grabbing Sherlock’s hand.

“Come on, I’m sure Mrs Hudson has cooked something delicious in the three hours you spent being lied on, and she’ll want to hear your explanation as much as I do.  I’m sure it involves much excitement.”  
“Perhaps too much,” Sherlock said, frowning.  “I think, John, that a short vacation may be in order.  I…” he stopped, pulling John to a stop too.  “I’m sorry, John.  It was incomprehensible of me to leave you as I did, but I couldn’t think of any other way, and…”  
“Shh.”  John pressed a finger to Sherlock’s lips and smiled, his eyes twinkling wonderfully.  “Remember, I’m still very angry at you, so don’t do anything to ruin my good mood at having you back.”  Seeing that Sherlock was determined to be serious, John dropped his hand from Sherlock’s face and leaned closer.  “I don’t say this enough, and it was one of the things that killed me when you left, but I _love_ you, Sherlock.  I do, deeply and truly.  I love you, and I will continue loving you and, whatever you might do that makes you think something to the contrary, I won’t leave you.  I will get angry, I will get mad; I will growl at you and possibly break things, but never will I leave you because of something you do, and certainly not something you did to protect me.  Okay?”

Sherlock nodded and dropped his head to rest his forehead against John’s.

“I love you,” he whispered against John’s lips. “And I’d do it again and again if it meant you were safe.  I’d rather not, of course, because it was hell, but if it was the only way to keep you alive I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”  
“You won’t have to.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“You’re forgiven.  You are always forgiven, Sherlock.”

They rested there, the moment held in time before they looked up at each other again, blinking wet eyes and laughing quietly at each other.  Sherlock ducked in for a kiss.

“I love you.”  
“I love you too.”

They kissed again, then John stepped back and straightened up.

“God, all of these feelings are unbecoming of us as true Englishmen.  Plus Mrs Hudson’s at the window laughing at us and, oh no, she’s crying.”  
“What!”

Sherlock’s head shot up and he turned to look at the window where Mrs Hudson was indeed simultaneously sniffing and smiling.  John laughed.

“Come on, love, let’s go inside.  We’ll eat, you can tell us stories, and then we’ll go upstairs and you can get the first good night of sleep that doesn’t involve being unconscious in about six months, from the look of you, and I will be very content to lie on you some more in a more comfortable setting.”  
“I suppose, if that’s what would make you happy,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, and they started back towards the house.

Mrs Hudson pulled the door open as they approached her and wrapped her arms around the two of them, laughing happily.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Sherlock,” she said.  Sherlock’s eyes softened as he looked down at her.  
“Me too,” he said quietly, kissing her on the top of her head.

John grinned, happy enough to burst, and tightened his grip on his odd family.

“Oh, Sherlock, what was in the card?” Mrs Hudson asked suddenly.  Sherlock looked abruptly sheepish.  
“I was going to ask you to give it tp John.  It is highly emotional, and largely nonsensical, and I would very much like to burn it now.”  
“Not a chance,” John told him firmly over the top of Mrs Hudson’s head.  Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.  “If it’s anything like what you just said, I’m framing it and putting it on a wall in our bedroom.”  
“I suppose I should be grateful that you’re not planning to hang it on the front door.”  
“Very grateful.”

Eventually, they released each other and moved toward the dinner table, three places already laid out and taken with gratitude.

Sherlock looked around at possibly the two most important people in his life and smiled, reflecting that this was what he missed.  Companionship and love was something he’d been hard pressed to remember on his travels and to feel it now, encompassing the entire room, was something Sherlock hadn’t let himself dream of.

John smiled to himself, unable to help it.  The Wolf was curled up contently, rumbling constantly in happiness, and he couldn’t stop it showing through.  He had Sherlock _back_ – after months and months of dreaming and hoping and wishing for the miracle, it had been granted to him.  He knew he should be angry at Sherlock for disappearing, and part of him still was, but he couldn’t bear to ruin the joy he felt at their reunion.  The yelling could wait; the tense silences and sulks on the couch could all be put on hold.  Sherlock was back, he was hale and hearty for the most part, and John couldn’t have been happier.

_This.  This is family.  This is the fire in his blood and the song in his heart, it is the warmth and love and affection that comes of having a pack to belong to, a pack that belongs to him._

John bit his lip to stop the howl and laughed quietly to himself, waving off the questioning look from Sherlock.

_This is a place of belonging._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is it. This is the end. I don't think I'll be doing anything more in this universe. It's possible that a drabble might bash me around the head all of a sudden, but I have nothing planned.  
> As always, I hope you enjoyed, and thank you for commenting/giving kudos/just reading in the first place!  
> I hope you had fun - I know I did.  
> I'm sure you'll see me around...  
> Cheers :)  
> Foxboxtango  
> (Don't own, don't sue. Also, no beta, so all grammar and spelling mistakes are mine and mine alone, despite reading through this thing a bajillion times.)

**Author's Note:**

> Wait, wait...am...am I back? Is this actually a sequel? You mean I wasn't just deluding myself into thinking it could ever happen?
> 
> HELL YEAH I AM. Wait, hell yeah I'm back, not hell yeah I was just deluding myself. Never mind.
> 
> So this took waaaay longer than I expected, and I apologise for that, I really do. But it's here now, so that's something. (Gee, I hope people haven't lost interest completely, that would be embarrassing...)
> 
> Welcome back to the Moon Song series, guys, as you can see I am as creative as ever when it comes to titles. That's right. Boom.
> 
> I have nearly completed this in its entirety, I just have the last little bit to go and then it will be done. I'll upload twice a week, probably. Theoretically, anyway - Mondays and Fridays, should be the go.
> 
> Um...Enjoy Moon Fire!!! (yaaaay)  
> Cheers,  
> Foxboxtango :)


End file.
